New research—and personal experience—debunks long-held myths about autism.
It was Mother’s Day and things had gone poorly. I was (am) a single mom, with four kids, and felt very alone. We had gone to brunch, and as usual I’d had to pick the place, make the arrangements, and of course, pay. When my kids get together (even now, as adults), bickering and conflict are not uncommon. I’m supposed to be grateful for their “candor” around me because it means they feel safe, but I was seriously indulging in a pity party instead.
My own mother died the day before a previous Mother’s Day, and this was the first time I’d celebrated the holiday without extended family, or her. I’ve lowered Mother’s Day expectations since then to… well, nil—expecting nothing and being content with that. But this particular story took place when I was a mere (!) two decades in. Sad and unappreciated was all I felt.
Home from brunch, I left a water tumbler on the counter. Just a tumbler, but a beautiful, heavy, clear glass one with bubbles of sea-blue and evergreen throughout. It had been one of my mother’s favorites, elegant as she was and full of sentimental value. Three others like it had already been broken by the kids.
My youngest, Edin, about 7 at the time and a high-needs autistic, has a lifelong love for glass and ceramics—and the somehow satisfying noise and feel of tossing and breaking them. When agitated, this helps him regulate. I get it—that’s what rage rooms are all about, right? I don’t blame him for succumbing to the urge; he was young and it was on me to place breakables out of reach.
Working on a jigsaw puzzle in the living room, or playing repeatedly with trains or books, he sauntered into the kitchen. Spying the tumbler, he seamlessly, expertly, swept his palm beneath it and… well, you know the rest.
I’d never bought into the “autistics lack empathy” trope, but that day proved it wrong. The glass hit the floor with crisp, crashing chimes, and I burst into tears. Lots of tears. Heaving sobs, the whole thing, leaning against the kitchen sink. Edin took one look at me and ran into the pantry. He returned clutching something in his palm and ran over to squeeze me in a big hug. Unfurling his fist, he offered up: a glue stick.
Edin, now almost 20, still doesn’t speak a lot. He knows how to apologize (and is super remorseful if he hurts anyone or anything), but didn’t then. He didn’t have to. The glue stick and hug spoke all.
Though I’m a psychiatric nurse practitioner with a Ph.D., I basically knew nothing about autism when he was born. And from that Mother’s Day forward, it was a relief to know (in my head), he was obviously compassionate and empathic, even if I’d known it before in my heart.
More advanced research about autism and empathy, written about in these pages, explores how prior research “proving” lack of empathy was poorly done. A recent metanalysis (an analysis of prior studies on a topic, grouped together) debunks old, awful stereotypes of autism ≠ empathy.
It may take a while for this “new” knowledge to trickle down culturally so we become comfortable and knowledgeable about autism and autistics. But be an early adopter. Here are easy concepts to get started:
- When autistics feel empathy, it generally doesn’t “look” like neurotypical empathy. An autistic in a group may not be looking at a speaker or might even face away. They’re often doing something that doesn’t “read” empathetic. Don’t be fooled. Many autistic adults say they actually need (or at least prefer) attending to several stimuli at once, especially socially. They may be watching a show on one device while playing music on another and streaming a foreign language on a third. This might drive me crazy but actually helps those with autism focus and regulate. Don’t expect them to “look” empathic.
- Autistics often lack verbal prowess. Nonspeakers, minimal speakers, unreliable speakers—it’s a spectrum, right? When my son feels empathy, he may loudly (or softly) recite his favorite memorized show or song lyric (or one that meshes well with what’s happening in the room). This is one way he regulates. He could be pacing, while other autistics may “stim” with different movements or fidgety behaviors. Ed will not be saying, “I’m so sorry that happened,” or “that must be hard” anytime soon. But he shows it other ways, and it’s on me to tune in.
- Many people know this, but it bears repeating: it’s not about eye contact. Adult autistics have told us repeatedly that eye contact can be stressful, exhausting, overwhelming, even painful. When Edin looks at me and smiles, I know it’s difficult so it means so much. But again, if he’s turned away or looking out the window, he’s usually paying attention. I know because hours or even days later he may reference a phrase obviously tied to a prior conversation. It’s hard for neurotypical folks to get used to autistics’ lack of eye contact, and it shouldn’t be forced on them to please others. They’re listening and feeling, just like any human.
- Processing time is key. Sometimes it takes a long time to respond to even yes/no questions (which tend to be easier for autistics to answer). Don’t repeat the question over and over (think how you’d feel if someone did that to you). Offer at least 10 or 15 seconds before expecting a response. It may feel weird to wait silently but it pays off. It gives an autistic person time to destress, offering respect for their needs and making it easier to get the words out—whether verbally or using high (keyboard) or low (letterboard) technology to communicate.
Presuming autistics are competent to understand and feel deeply offers neurodignity, a great gift. When I asked Edin recently to finish the sentence: “One foreign language I like is: ——”? He immediately spelled out: T-A-L-K-I-N-G. Verbal language is not his mother tongue! But it’s not so hard to read his feelings and needs—whether they be empathy, joy, sadness, distaste, impatience, or what have you. He’s got all the feels, just waiting to be heard.
